Sunday Mornings
by garamonder
Summary: Cora finds Tom, and sits with him a while. Post-3x05, regards spoilers for 3x06.


Tom barely glanced at Cora as she entered the room. Since that night, his gaze always appeared unfocused unless it fell upon his daughter, who seemed the only one able to fully command his attention. Then some memory of annoyance reached him and he frowned, asking, "Has he sent you 'round to lecture me as well?"

"No," said Cora, "I'm not opposed to the christening."

His face relaxed and he turned his face again to the window. Sybil lay sleeping close by.

Cora sat down on a chair next to his. "I only wanted to come and sit with you a while."

Tom's eyes had resumed their glaze but Cora didn't let that last. "Actually, Tom, I'm glad you're fighting so hard for it."

He looked at her then, and Cora gave him a small smile. "Sometimes we need the fight."

Shaking his head, Tom exhaled. "I feel inclined to fight on everything. Every issue now seems to boil my blood. Whether it's the christening or Ireland or what bloody fork to use."

The obscenity fell mute upon the vacuum.

"Then fight," said Cora.

"Sybil wouldn't have liked it." He rarely said her name—his wife's. He said his daughter's frequently, with devotion.

Cora smoothed her dress. How horribly elegant she looked in black.

"She married your fight, along with the rest of you," said Cora, thinking that she knew very little of the rest of him. None of them knew him, except perhaps Matthew. It was only the fight they saw. She would change that.

"Whatever you need for the christening, tell me or the girls," she said, and nearly faltered when she realized that was the first time she had referred to only her _two_ girls. Cora went on with difficulty. "Whatever you need for anything."

But as she said it she saw in his face that there was nothing he wanted from them. Tom wanted to be _away_ from them, would take his daughter and go right back to Ireland, to his people, if he could; he'd leave that minute. He never seemed such a stranger to her as he did just then, right then when he should have been the most like family.

Decorum and composure and all the proper English virtues she'd cultivated over the years threatened to fracture against the face of her anguish—God, she wanted to _throw_ something.

And then, like tossing a lifeline, Tom said suddenly: "I know Sybil never leaned Catholic. We were married in a Church of Ireland and—it never seemed to come up. We went to a church where anyone could go."

Somehow this startled Cora, this small allusion to their life in Dublin. Downton Abbey was a world unto itself; it was easy to forget how other worlds existed, and how much larger theirs had been. They had kissed goodbye each morning before they left for work, they had met each day coming home, they had gone to the market, they sat together at dinner…and they attended church.

Tom went on, losing the monotone he'd developed since _that_ night. "But she liked that I cared. She cared. When it came down to it, what we thought wasn't so different."

Cora brought her hand to her mouth. "She always wished we cared more."

Her son looked at her. He knew. Tom had been employed by their family for years; he'd driven them everywhere, including services on Sundays. For all that time he'd been only the back of a head, but he'd listened.

Their family had never placed a great emphasis on church. Robert saw their attendance as an indulgent nod to the villagers, simple people who had simple beliefs and expected their lord to keep their faith. He acknowledged God in the same manner he did most things—distantly. Mary once remarked that Sunday mornings were as much an occasion to show off a new hat as anything else.

Sybil had loved Sunday mornings.

"Did she talk to you about it?" Cora asked, her voice breaking.

"Yes."

"She talked to you about everything."

Tom said, "Yes."

Sybil moved and made a soft sound. Cora went over and knelt next to her, picking up the baby and cradling her. Such a beautiful child. "I'm embroidering something for her. For the christening."

It was a minute before she looked back to Tom, and saw how affected he was.

"Thank you," he said.

"I'm so sorry you only had a year," she said.

"We were married a year," said Tom, and his throat constricted. "We were friends for much longer. I count that time. All of it."

"I'm glad," said Cora. She gazed at her darling granddaughter with clear eyes.


End file.
